Erosion
by ash the airbender
Summary: Sherlock is relentless in his pursuit of what he wants. John's self-control is the stuff of legends. What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? (Johnlock)
1. Premise

**Erosion**

_A/N: Much thanks to my betas, tamikotheniko and PhoenixFeather0198! I don't have much to say here, so... enjoy!_

**1: Premise**

Sherlock was alone in the flat, lying in as near to darkness as could be achieved in the middle of the day: lights off, curtains drawn, doors shut. His lean, long-limbed body was sprawled across the entirety of John's bed, and his sleeves were rolled up to reveal the alabaster skin of his forearms. He wore two nicotine patches and was contemplating a third, eventually deciding against it because it would involve getting up, since he didn't have John around to fetch it for him.

Sherlock's head ached with the pressure of his own thoughts and he had to squeeze his eyes shut to keep his mind from spinning. On days like these he loathed his brother Mycroft for forcing him off his drugs; more than anything Sherlock longed for the needle to fill this void of Johnlessness.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if there was a case. Perhaps, if Sherlock had something to occupy his mind, something to persuade him to leave the flat, where everything reminded him of John. Where he could go to the kitchen and open the cupboards filled with John's things, make himself a cup of John's tea in John's teapot and then sit in John's chair reading John's newspaper and thinking about John. And then he would inevitably gravitate toward John's room, because the magnetic pull of more of this Johnness was more than even Sherlock could resist, and he didn't want to do anything – not play violin, not conduct experiments, not look over cold cases – other than sit there, in John's room, on John's bed, on John's sheets, breathing in John's smell, and thinking, always, about John.

Sherlock was an addict at heart, prone to dangerous obsessive tendencies. John was his latest drug, and the sudden withdrawal was killing him, eating away at his insides until he was nothing but a fragile shell of a body on a bed in a room where he really oughtn't to be anyway. And this after John had only been gone for four days.

To a wedding. A _wedding_. John had left Sherlock alone for four days so he could attend the wedding of an old friend with whom he hadn't even kept in contact since before the war, hadn't even known the bloke was getting married until the invitation showed up in the mail. But he went, because he was John and he did nice, pointless things for nice, pointless people and Sherlock had been left behind because he hadn't wanted to go and John hadn't been offered a plus one and he wouldn't have let Sherlock go anyway because "you'd just end up insulting someone and I'd never be invited to anything again."

Sherlock failed to see how this was a bad thing.

When all the other children were learning how to share, Sherlock was reading encyclopaedias by flashlight and mounting dead insects on pins. Sherlock Holmes did not share his things, and he didn't like sharing his John, either. It was enough that John insisted on trying to establish relationships with every willing woman in London; Sherlock was aware, however reluctant he was to accept, that John had needs that Sherlock could not fulfill, no matter how available Sherlock made himself should John ever happen to change his mind on that matter, it seemed John was determined to persist in stubbornly refusing to consider Sherlock as a potential sexual partner.

This, above all, was what frustrated Sherlock most about John. Everything else about John – every flaw, every annoyance, every shortcoming – was nonetheless part of what made John who he was. John wouldn't be John without his tedious habits and horrid jumpers, his insistence on adhering to perceived social obligations. But John's refusal to reciprocate Sherlock's interest somehow did not fit into this picture. It was as if, by denying his attraction to Sherlock, John was denying a part of himself that would make him a whole and perfect John. And that, to Sherlock, was absolutely infuriating.

Yes, he was aware of John's attraction. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, after all; how could he not notice such a blatant and obvious fact? Nearly everyone with whom they came in contact was aware of it, barring a few individuals who were stupid (Anderson), oblivious (Lestrade), or blatantly in denial (Molly).

Mycroft was well aware of it as well; he insisted on bringing it up whenever he managed to force his company on Sherlock, on those rare occasions when Sherlock found his brother simply couldn't be avoided. "Has your boyfriend finally come to his senses?" he would ask, never failing to sound somehow both petty and condescending in his childish attempts to get a rise out of Sherlock.

The point being, everyone knew John was attracted to Sherlock. And unless John was lingering under the hefty shadow of major denial, he too was aware that his feelings for Sherlock went beyond the purely platonic. Being that John was not the sort to lie to himself, Sherlock had to assume John's reason for refraining from pursuing a sexual – romantic? – relationship with his flatmate was one of two possible options.

Either John did not think he and Sherlock would fit well together in this new capacity – perhaps he thought them incompatible or feared risking the merits of their friendship – or he did not realise that Sherlock returned his affections.

The latter was more likely, because of course the two of them would be perfectly compatible. They already were. Their relationship was one for the ages, difficult even for Sherlock to put into words without waxing poetic.

So John was steering clear of romantic involvement with Sherlock because he did not think the detective would be interested. Lying in John's room on John's bed, Sherlock came to the conclusion that he would have to persuade John otherwise. The question was, how to go about this.

Of course, he could always come straight out with an honest confession, but that seemed to Sherlock like an awfully dull way of doing things and he would hate to start off their relationship on such an uninteresting note.

Instead, Sherlock decided he may as well turn this venture into something more exciting: an experiment.

A grin spread across Sherlock's face in the dimness and quiet. No longer would he mope about the empty flat, counting the seconds till John returned. He finally had something new to think about: how to lure John into finally giving into his desires. And with John's level of self-control, this task would surely prove to be a challenge.


	2. Touching

**Erosion**

_A/N: I've decided to include an actual case here, which I usually wouldn't do because I'm rubbish at writing mystery. But the case isn't the main focus of the chapter, it's more focused on the relationship between Sherlock and John. At least, that's what I was going for. We'll see if it worked!_

**2: Touching**

The moment John returned from his friend – to use the term liberally – George's wedding, Sherlock was all over him. It was unprecedented and more than a little unnerving.

John hadn't yet shut the door behind him upon arriving at the flat before Sherlock swooped up to him, quite like a vulture encircling its prey, and, with an arm around John's shoulders, steered the man back down the stairs and out the door, his suitcase left forgotten at the entrance to their flat.

"No time to waste, John; we've got another case," was Sherlock's idea of an acceptable excuse. John let his flatmate's behaviour slide, if only because he knew Sherlock must have been bored out of his mind without a case and no John to distract him over the past four days. Now Sherlock had John _and_ a case; of course he was giddy as a six-year-old on Christmas.

John's lack of complaint had nothing to do with the fact that Sherlock still had an arm slung around his shoulders, keeping him close as he hailed them a cab. Nothing at all to do with the fact that it was rainy and a little cold and John welcomed the warmth Sherlock's body provided, pressed up side-to-side against his own.

He was Sherlock's friend, his partner-in-solving-crime, and occasionally (frequently) a distraction from the constant threat of boredom. But John would _not_ risk the tenuous balance of their relationship by admitting that a small, easily ignorable part of him longed for something more.

He'd made that mistake once, with another friend a long time ago, and it was not an experience he would eagerly repeat. Not this time. Not with Sherlock. The risks were too great.

Jaw set in determination, John forced back all unwelcome thoughts as Sherlock steered him into the cab and insisted on sitting right up next to him, arm draped over the back of the seat, hand casually resting on John's shoulder. It wasn't difficult; John was resilient, if anything, and maybe more than a little stubborn. He could keep up this "pretending I don't find my flatmate incredibly attractive" bid… hell, indefinitely.

The can ride was otherwise uneventful. Since very little had transpired in John's absence, Sherlock had next to nothing to report. They rode almost the whole way in silence.

Lestrade was already at the scene of the crime, which within seconds of their arrival Sherlock had accurately pegged as a kidnapping. The crime scene was an entire street block, giving Sherlock plenty of space to continue dragging John around by the arm like a rag doll. John consented to this, as it really wasn't worth putting up the fight. He rolled his eyes at Sherlock's antics, and kept quiet except once, when Sherlock asked his opinion and then proceeded to disregard it entirely.

Examining the evidence didn't take long, given that this wasn't one of their more difficult cases and Lestrade had probably only called them in because he knew how stir-crazy Sherlock must have been and didn't want John or any of the rest of them to suffer the possibly repercussions of a stir-crazy Sherlock. They spoke to a few witnesses, all of whom were present and ready for questioning, so that process was thankfully hastened (the sooner it ended, the less chance there was of Sherlock grievously insulting someone). When Sherlock figured it out, he actually grabbed John's hand – interlaced fingers and all – and bounded down the street to hail another cab. Lestrade ordered a few of his men to follow in squad cars, knowing Sherlock would most likely lead them to their culprit.

Sherlock was explaining how he'd solved the case to John, who was only half-listening, distracted by the fact that Sherlock was _still_ holding his hand. He dismissed it in his head, telling himself it probably wasn't a conscious gesture on Sherlock's part. Sherlock was caught up in the case and when he was caught up in a case he didn't give much thought to other people's personal space or boundaries, especially John's.

They got out in front of a florist. "I've been having my informants watch this street corner for some time now." By "informants," John knew Sherlock meant the clever little homeless network he'd established throughout London. "There happens to be a man living in the building next door, a Charles Rushford, who I'm convinced is involved in a drug trafficking scheme that the police have been tracking for some time now."

"Is that out suspect?" John asked. Sherlock looked at him like he was astounded by his partner's stupidity.

"No, John," Sherlock said, actually sounding personally insulted. "Weren't you listening to anything I said on the way here? It's the neighbour, of course."

John knit his eyebrows together. "That old woman?" The next-door neighbour of the two kidnapped girls was the most harmless old woman John had ever met. She'd had trouble remembering the name of her own cat; somehow John didn't think she'd be capable of committing a crime, let alone one as serious as kidnapping.

"Don't be facetious, John; it doesn't suit you," Sherlock sneered. He plucked a photograph from the pocket inside his coat. "Her grandson, obviously," he said, handing the photograph to John. "Gary Steeple."

John looked at the photograph, which was of a youngish man – just shy of Sherlock's age, he'd wager – with a pinched, unpleasant face and tight, rusty curls. "Did you steal this from that woman's house?" he demanded. Sherlock snatched the photograph back.

"She won't miss it, won't even notice it's gone," he said dismissively. "As I might have expected, nothing she told us about him was particularly useful. Fortunately, I was able to deduce more than enough to discern him as the culprit. He's young, twenty-nine, and he works here," Sherlock gestured to the florist, "for those little girls' uncle."

"So this is personal, then," John said.

"Not so much personal as it is merely convenient," Sherlock said, because heaven forbid John be right about something for once in his life. "This is a textbook sociopath we're dealing with; he won't have sentimental or emotional motivations."

"Sociopaths don't just go around kidnapping ten-year-old girls for no reason," John argued. "You don't."

"Yes, well, I say sociopath, but that's not exactly the full extent of it," Sherlock continued. His hand was still loosely holding John's, a fact of which John had become unaware in trying to concentrate on Sherlock's explanation of the case, until he noticed Donovan eyeing them with something akin to disbelief. John quickly withdrew his hand, not wanting to give anyone any wrong ideas.

Almost instantly, as if he'd been waiting for the cue, Sherlock placed a hand at the small of John's back to lead him into the florist shop. John scowled in frustration and tried to ignore the gentle brush of fingers guiding him toward the entrance.

"One look in the old woman's medicine cabinet revealed that Gary has been taking medication for a tragically misdiagnosed case of clinical depression. But he's also been abusing substances, namely the pills his grandmother _should_ be taking, but forgets to, given her deteriorated mental state. The side effects of Gary's medication include schizophrenia and aggression, and I'm guessing were brought about and amplified by his substance abuse." Sherlock sneered. "Terrible way to achieve a chemical high, if you ask me. Almost impossible to predict the results."

"Glad to hear your professional opinion, Sherlock," Lestrade interrupted, sidling up next to Sherlock and John. He didn't pay attention to the way Sherlock's hand still lingered at John's back. Perhaps John was simply being paranoid. "Now can we please get on with what I'm assuming is going to be an arrest?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, brightening at the prospect of facing a dangerous criminal. John would have rolled his eyes if he didn't feel much the same way. "He'll be holding the girls here, in the room upstairs. It's where the shop owner lives, but he's on holiday and Gary is in charge of the shop for a week."

"I won't even ask you how you know that right now," Lestrade said, shaking his head in bewilderment. "No use wasting time on that when we've got a criminal on the loose. Just make sure it gets in the final report."

Sherlock didn't respond to this, not making any promises, instead leading John, Lestrade, and a small number of police into the florist's shop. The police had their guns ready, and John wished Sherlock had given him time to grab his before whisking him out of the flat.

He also wished Sherlock would release his grip on his wrist, because John was sure Sherlock's unbearable nearness was doing extremely noticeable things to his pulse and he knew of Sherlock's talent for covertly taking a person's pulse. Although John supposed he could use the tenseness of the current situation – sneaking up on a kidnapper – as an excuse for his elevated heart rate.

Sherlock led the band upstairs, to a modest flat above the shop, clearly home to just one person, the florist, the kidnapped girls' uncle.

Once they were in the flat, the police took over the search. Sherlock and John stood off to the side, ready should they be needed, but at the moment, relaxed. They sat on a sofa, once again uncomfortably close and with Sherlock's arm resuming its new favourite perch around John's shoulders. John tried to look disgruntled by this. Largely, he failed.

Lestrade returned frustrated. "There's no one home, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock stood, seemingly shocked by this fact. "Impossible," he said. "I know he took the girls here. He must have. They weren't at the grandmother's house; where else could he have possibly—" And then he stopped, midsentence, and John could tell just from the look on his face (the same look as when the old blind woman on the phone had been killed as part of Moriarty's twisted psychotic game) that he had just come to a terrible realisation.

Without explanation, Sherlock was off like a shot, down the stairs and out the door and into the street. Everyone ran behind him frantically; Sherlock looked around, seemed to settle on a direction, and ran down the street at full speed.

John managed to catch up to him, breathing heavily but feeling as invigourated and alive as he always did on these chases. "Where are they?" John asked.

"It can't be far," Sherlock said between breaths. "It's got to be within walking distance."

"Where?" John asked.

"The psychiatrist's office!" Sherlock came to a sudden halt, sized up the building in front of him, and barged in. He passed several closed doors with plaques identifying them as the offices of various psychiatric professionals before stopping in front of one and jiggling the doorknob: locked.

While Lestrade and his men were still catching their breath, Sherlock deftly picked the lock and threw open the door. John gasped at the sight he was met with.

The twin girls, recognisable from their photographs, were huddled on the floor against a desk, sobbing. Their culprit, Gary Steeples, held a gun to one of the girls' heads; a second, unfamiliar man was slumped lifeless on the desk, bleeding from a bullet wound to the brain. Gary's psychiatrist.

"Freeze!" Lestrade ordered, aiming his own gun at Gary. The kidnapper's shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn around or lower his gun.

The man's finger on the trigger tightened just the barest fraction of a millimetre and John reacted instantly, grabbing Gary's arm that held the gun and trapping it behind his back until he could pry the gun from Gary's fingers. He handed it off to Sherlock, who happened to be nearest, and held onto Gary until Lestrade had him in handcuffs. The girls continued sobbing. In the background, Donovan ordered for someone to get the girls' parents on the phone.

John stepped back in a daze. Sherlock's face was hard as he watched the scene unfold. Neither of them moved or even shifted until everyone else had gone, the psychiatrist's body taken away, leaving only the two of them and Lestrade alone in the all at once too small and too big room.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Lestrade said, nodding to the detective. "John. Without the two of you those girls would probably be dead."

"Most likely," Sherlock said, neither accepting nor rejecting the DI's thanks. "I take it you'll need our official statements some time tomorrow?"

"I'll just phone you; you don't need to come by the Yard," Lestrade said, despite his usual efforts to do everything by the book, or as close to "by the book" as could be done where Sherlock Holmes was involved. "It'll be a madhouse there anyway, with a kidnapping and now a murder. You two deserve a day free of all this." Lestrade gestured to their surroundings: the footprints left by the police, the blood staining the desk, the general atmosphere around them.

John thanked Lestrade for being so considerate. He thought it wouldn't be too good for Sherlock's reputation – and Donovan's "one of these days Sherlock will finally snap and kill us all" theory – to tell Lestrade that neither of them particularly needed a day off, and that chases and bloodshed and intrigue and mystery and crime and adrenaline were what both of them, not just Shsrlock, got off on.

The cab ride back to 221B was much like the one they'd taken to get to the scene of the crime: silent, and with Sherlock suddenly being all touchy-feely with his confused and overwhelmed flatmate.

At one point Sherlock's hand was resting on John's thigh. At that same point, John's brain decided to completely stop functioning.

If Sherlock kept on like this, John's self control was going to go downhill fast.


	3. Spending Time

**Erosion**

_A/N: Sherlock may act a little out of character here. That was intentional. He is conducting an experiment, after all. Meanwhile, John's patience is tested as Sherlock begins to grate on his nerves with his inexplicable change in behaviour. Please inform me of any spelling or grammar errors that I may have missed._

**3: Spending Time**

John couldn't get to sleep that night, and when he did, it was only for a few nightmare-riddled hours. He tossed and turned most of the night, then finally gave up, lying on his side and staring out the window until the sun came up. Sometimes he wondered if he really got that much more sleep than Sherlock.

True to his word, Lestrade didn't call them in to Scotland Yard that day. Or the next. Or any other day that week. John wondered how long it would be before Sherlock was putting bullet holes in things that ought not have bullet holes, and getting yelled at by Mrs. Hudson for it. John was sure to keep his gun out of Sherlock's reach, just in case.

As it was, Sherlock did not appear to be showing symptoms of overwhelming boredom quite yet. John counted himself lucky on that one, and decided not to think too far into it. Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth, he figured. And John went about his business as usual, reading the paper, forcing his flatmate to sleep and eat, running dull but necessary errands on his own, and otherwise leaving Sherlock, for the most part, to his own devices.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair when John came downstairs one morning a week after the kidnapping, staring expressionlessly at the stairwell with his fingers steepled, like he'd been waiting for John. It was extremely unnerving, even more so than John was used to. He couldn't quite meet Sherlock's too-intense gaze as he made them breakfast and made himself tea.

Since they didn't have much to do that day, and seeing as Sherlock certainly hadn't gone grocery shopping while John was out of town for the wedding and there was consequently very little food in the flat that wasn't being used for an experiment, John took the rare opportunity to go to the Tesco for food.

"I'll be back in an hour," John said. He actually wasn't sure when he'd be back, but he didn't think Sherlock cared or was even listening. He looked like he'd gone off into his mind palace, staring off into the middle distance as he so often did when there wasn't much of anything to keep him otherwise occupied. Chances were he wouldn't notice John's absence, and would continue lingering under the impression that John was still there.

So it was to John's great surprise when Sherlock stood – practically leapt to his feet, like he'd been waiting for John to make that very announcement – and said, "I'll come with you."

For a moment, John was convinced he was hearing things. He paused with his hand hovering over his coat, about to take it down from the hook, and turned to Sherlock, who was standing close behind him (uncomfortably close). He schooled his expression into one of casual indifference, because _clearly_ he was hearing things; even if there existed an infinite number of parallel universes each hosting their own version of Sherlock Holmes, in none of them would Sherlock ever willingly engage in an activity so dull and commonplace as grocery shopping. Not without some sort of ulterior motive.

"What?" John said, assuming Sherlock would set him straight and therefore prove that the world was still in order and he'd only been experiencing a temporary auditory hallucination.

"I said," Sherlock replied, leaning forward to grab his own coat and, in the process, leaning his body fully against John's in a way that made John shift and fidget and inhale a deep breath. His mouth was right next to John's ear as he repeated, "I'll come with you."

Bloody hell, that voice.

John clenched his hand into a fist at his side. If Sherlock kept on like this John was going to experience an increasing level of difficulty restraining himself from jumping his unfairly attractive flatmate.

Refocusing himself in the present, John turned to Sherlock with a look like he'd finally lost it. Of all the unexpected things Sherlock had done since they'd met and become flatmates in a whirlwind sequence of events that even now John had trouble understanding, _this_ was the most unexpected.

"You… _what_?" John repeated, yet again, because seriously, _what_? Sherlock looked at him with amusement, his face still irritatingly close.

"Honestly, John, do I have to repeat myself _again_?" His smirk was infuriating. John was torn between wanting to punch that look off his face, and wanting to snog it off.

He did neither.

"No, sorry, I just…" John fumbled for words. Really, he was overreacting. This wasn't such a huge ordeal. Sherlock wanted to go shopping. He probably wanted to stop somewhere to pick up human brains for an experiment. It was just… damn, Sherlock had been all up in his personal space lately, and it was completely disorienting. He couldn't _think_ straight with the detective so close to him, and looking particularly nice today, too…

John shook that thought from his head before it had a chance to go anywhere.

"Fine," John said, shrugging his shoulders like there was nothing strange about this turn of events. "Come on, then." He surreptitiously stepped away from Sherlock, reestablishing his personal space boundaries. "And don't start blaming me if you get bored halfway through."

Sherlock gave an unsettling grin. "You're far from boring, John," he said. John simply rolled his eyes and opened the door, letting Sherlock step out in front of him so he could keep an eye on the peculiar detective.

"Oh really? Since when?" John inquired sardonically. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock had always considered him quite dull.

He barely heard Sherlock's muttered response: "I've never thought you were boring."

John chose to ignore it, for the sake of his sanity.

At the store, rather than striking off on his own as John had expected him to, Sherlock stuck to John's side the whole way, never more than a step behind him. Breathing down his neck. And speaking. In his ear. In that voice.

If it weren't for John's incredible self-control, he might have done something regrettable and highly inappropriate to his unsuspecting flatmate that would probably have gotten them kicked out of the store.

As it was, he simply dug his fingernails into his palms, gritted his teeth, and resolved never to go grocery shopping with Sherlock again.

They were in line for the self check-out when Sherlock suddenly leaned forward and grabbed John's wrist, his mouth once again next to John's ear. John was caught off guard, sure that Sherlock was about to point to someone across the store and, in hushed tones, identify them as a suspect to a murder case.

Instead, Sherlock simply smirked, let out a hitched breath that may have been a laugh, and withdrew. John let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. He yanked his wrist out of Sherlock's grasp and huffed in frustration.

That was it, John decided. That was the bloody end. After a week of Sherlock hovering around him, hands all over him, never leaving his side, John had come to his final straw and he was _done_. He'd been wound too tightly for too long, and finally, he snapped.

"What was that for?" John demanded, with perhaps a bit more hostility than was strictly necessary. Sherlock turned to him with an innocent expression that didn't fool John for minute.

"To what are you referring, John?" John clenched his jaw and glared. That damn baritone voice was going to be the death of him.

"Why exactly are you here, Sherlock?" he said. "You never want to run errands or anything so ordinary. If it weren't for me you wouldn't even eat. Why the sudden change?"

Sherlock's eyebrows went up, like _he_ was the one who was caught off guard. Like _he_ was the one who should be affronted. Like _he_ was acting completely normally and _John_ was the strange one.

The nerve of him. Honestly.

Even Sherlock's voice was irritating in its honey-slicked sweetness. "I want to spend time with you, John," he said. "Is that really so hard to believe?"

John continued glaring. "Yes. Yes, Sherlock, it is."

When they got back to the flat, John's irritation had somewhat abated. Sherlock had, for the most part, and to John's great relief, kept his hands to himself the whole way home.

Still, John had felt so smothered by his usually aloof and distant flatmate lately that he felt he needed some time alone. So he shut himself in his room and locked the door, without giving an explanation to Sherlock.

An hour later, the sounds of violin music wafted gently through the flat. It seemed Sherlock was keeping himself entertained in John's absence, but in quite an ironic twist of fate, now _John_ was bored out of his mind and feeling like putting some bullet holes in the flat. John scowled, trying, and ultimately failing, not to be at least somewhat grateful for the unobtrusive melody to fill the void of silence and solitude.


	4. Music

**Erosion**

_A/N: String instruments are sexy. The cello especially, but violins are also melt-worthy. This chapter is fluff, but hopefully a reasonable amount. Sherlock turns to the sincerest form of communication – music – and even more sincerity follows._

**4: Music**

The violin playing did not stop after that evening, nor did John's avoidance of Sherlock. Both continued, for the most part uninterrupted, over the duration of the week. Lestrade never texted. There were no cases.

Finally, John decided he could risk spending time around Sherlock without being touched and followed and crowded, seeing as the detective was so wrapped up in his music that he had hardly looked up in five days. He hadn't eaten, mostly because John hadn't forced him to, and he hadn't slept.

So John walked downstairs, past Sherlock into the kitchen. He threw together a meal for each of them, returned to the other room, and shoved a plate of food in front of Sherlock. He met the detective's eyes with a pointed look.

"Eat," he demanded. Sherlock glared and played a few more notes, probably just to be ornery, before setting down his violin and bow and resentfully taking the plate in both hands. He practically shoveled the food into his mouth at a rate that couldn't possibly be healthy, but at least it was healthier than not eating at all.

The minute Sherlock was done, he shoved the plate away, making a point of doing it as loudly as possible, before picking up his bow once again, straightening his spine, and letting himself fall back into the music.

John had thought he was safe being around Sherlock so long as there wasn't too much touching.

John was wrong.

Sherlock's bow slid across the strings of the violin, and John's brain ground to an absolute standstill. His fork hovered in the air halfway between his mouth and his plate before John slowly returned it to the table with a soft clink.

The first notes of the song were soft, slow, like liquid flowing from the delicate instrument. They washed over John like the waves of the sea and enveloped him in a bubble that no other sound could penetrate: not the cars outside, nor the pattering of autumn rain against the windows of the flat.

John was never much of a music man; he recognised the song as classical but wasn't familiar enough with the genre to identify the composer. It wasn't a tune he recalled hearing before, though.

It wasn't so much the music, though, as it was the man who was playing. Sherlock's eyes were closed, his mouth set in a way that conveyed his focus but the rest of him seemingly lost in the music he was making. His movements were fluid, arms and elbows and long, pale fingers. Mesmerising.

John was left wondering when violin music became so erotic. He wondered when he became so unbearably gay as to wax poetic watching his flatmate play violin. He'd always gone about fancying the occasional bloke, but that sort of thing was normal. _This_, however… This was ridiculous.

Still, John had had a hard time in the past few weeks remembering why he was resisting his feelings for Sherlock in the first place. He decided he deserved a break from always being on high alert. In a moment of weakness, he shut his eyes and succumbed to the music.

John didn't realise he was asleep until he was rudely awoken by a hand on his shoulder. He jolted awake, eyes flying open, greeted by the image of Sherlock leaning over him, his face barely inches away, looking down at John with smug amusement.

"Really, John, you don't get nearly enough sleep." He grinned cheekily. John glared.

"You prick." He shoved Sherlock off of him and stood, collecting what shreds of dignity he had left. Sherlock continued to grin. John rolled his eyes.

"Does this mean you've finished giving me the silent treatment?" Sherlock asked, sounding as though he already knew the answer. Because he always did.

"I was never giving you the 'silent treatment,'" John said scornfully. "I was avoiding you because you've been so bloody tactile lately."

"And that bothers you?" Sherlock inquired. There was something in his eyes that made John think he was laughing at him… but then it was gone, and John was convinced he'd imagined it.

"Yes," John lied. "It does."

"You've never shown any signs of claustrophobia before," Sherlock observed.

"It isn't claustrophobia," John said. He could handle tight spaces just fine. He just couldn't handle all this closeness. Not with Sherlock. Not when he was barely restraining himself as it was. "It's just… this sort of closeness and, er, touching… It's not the sort of thing friends do."

"Who, then?" John felt like he was being interrogated, but he knew from experience that this was the sort of thing Sherlock needed to have spelled out for him.

"I dunno, girlfriends and boyfriends," John said. "Lovers, partners, couples…"

Sherlock withdrew from John, nodding comprehendingly. "I understand," he said. "And seeing as you and I do not have that sort of relationship, that sort of behaviour would be deemed inappropriate."

"Exactly," John said, glad to have finally communicated this to Sherlock. Maybe now he could get some peace, and not walk around constantly with his guard up. "That's exactly what I mean."

There was a stretch of silence between them. John leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbow on his leg and his head in his hand, lost in thought. He didn't notice Sherlock watching him with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. He didn't notice much of anything until he turned, suddenly, to face Sherlock, his eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement.

"What was that song you were playing earlier?" he asked. "When I fell asleep?"

"Ah, an original composition," Sherlock said with a one-shouldered shrug. "Something I've been working on. I didn't know you'd find it so boring." He looked up with a grin. John rolled his eyes at him again.

"I liked it," he said. "I've just been exhausted lately."

Sherlock's expression turned instantly serious. He leaned toward John, trying to meet the doctor's eyes, failing when John looked away. He pursed his lips and twitched his head in an almost-nod, seeming to come to a conclusion. John could only imagine what it was.

"If you find my playing so soporific," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers and regarding John with a face devoid of emotion, "I could play more often."

Despite Sherlock's careful expression, John could not miss his tone. John was forcibly reminded of the H.O.U.N.D. case, when Sherlock spoke with a similar sincerity: "_I don't have friends. I've just got one_." John's heart bloody skipped a beat, and he cursed himself again for acting like such a sap.

"Don't go without sleep on my account," John said. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but it wasn't very convincing.

"I go to sleep for you, John, because you ask me to," Sherlock said lowly. John couldn't help but meet his eyes. "What makes you think going without sleep for the same cause would be any different?"

John was about to respond when Sherlock's phone buzzed on the table, interrupting their rare moment of candidacy. "Hold that thought," Sherlock said, picking up the device and reading the newly received text.

The light in Sherlock's eyes when his head snapped up could mean only one thing, and John knew very well what that thing was.

They had a case.


	5. Closeness

**Erosion**

_A/N: John's sexual frustration begins to show in several inconvenient ways. I had fun with this chapter._

**5: Closeness**

"Where is it?"

John riffled through drawers, searching frantically. Sherlock was across the room, kneeling on all fours (John took a moment to appreciate the truly splendid view of his flatmate's arse before returning his focus to the far more important matter at hand), fingering the floorboards in hopes that one of them might yield to reveal a secret compartment of sorts.

Having searched every drawer and cabinet in the dark, dusty study, John turned, trying to think of where else the jewels for which they were searching could be hidden.

"The curtains, John," Sherlock said, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he dug his nails between the wooden slats that made up the floor and tried to pry them apart, to no avail. "Check the curtains."

John pursed his lips, thinking it was unlikely he would find the necklace there, but following Sherlock's orders all the same.

There were two sets of heavy, crimson curtains in the room. John pulled back the first, and a blinding shaft of light penetrated the room through a large, dusty window looking out on the street below. John checked the window frame and the surrounding wall for any sign of a potential hiding place. Nothing. He was pulling the curtains shut when his gaze happened to drift down to the street below. He cursed out loud, causing Sherlock to look up from his inspection of the floor.

"Sherlock," he said warningly, "We have company."

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked, sounding concerned. "They shouldn't be back yet."

"Well, they are," John said, picking his flatmate up off the floor. "We should leave."

"Can't," Sherlock said. He joined John at the window. "We have to hide."

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, searching now for a place to hide two grown men. His eyes landed on the closet in the corner. Without another word, his fingers encircled John's wrist and he dragged John into the closet, shutting the door behind them and encasing them in utter darkness.

Immediately John realised what a problem their current circumstances would quickly become.

First of all, the closet was hardly a desirable place to be, being dank and dusty and cluttered with miscellaneous cleaning supplies that didn't make any sense to be keeping in a study, but then, judging by the film of dust that coated the spines of the books on the bookshelves in the study, the room obviously was not being used for its intended purpose. It was also very hot, a quality that was amplified by the fact that John and Sherlock were in very close quarters and both still wearing their coats.

Second, amidst all the buckets and mops that took up space in the corners of the already cramped closet, there was hardly room for two fully grown men to stand. And therein lay the problem.

In order to fit, Sherlock and John were facing each other, pressed almost entirely against one another, with the walls of the closet at their backs. Sherlock leaned with his arms over John's head in an attempt to make the space between them roomier, but the position ended up only succeeding in making John feel trapped. He shoved his hands in his pockets and summoned his most displeased frown to hide the fact that he could feel everything about Sherlock. _Everything_.

Sherlock's chin was jutting into John's forehead. His hands were behind John's head. His neck was right in front of John's nose, his chest pressing up against John's, the buttons of their respective shirts digging painfully into each other.

Also in an effort to give John more room, Sherlock had positioned his feet on either side of John's, and was in effect straddling his hips in a way that John was having a tough time ignoring.

His hips. John's hips. Sherlock's hips. Were bloody _pressing up against each other_. A few layers of clothing were all that lay between them. And once John was aware of this fact, his every nerve ending seemed to leap into a state of hypersensitivity. He had to grit his teeth and dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from getting too… excited.

"Sorry about this, John," Sherlock said, looking down at John in the darkness, his dark curls brushing John's forehead lightly. "I know we just talked about the issue of your personal space…"

"I'd rather be cramped in a closet with you than dead on the floor out there," John reasoned, though at the moment he wasn't so sure. Maybe he would rather be dead.

"Good," Sherlock said, nodding absently, focused on listening for noise outside the door. "That's good." Then everything faded to quiet in nervous anticipation.

Footsteps walked on the level beneath them for quite a while, at least three pairs of feet. Two men and a woman, Sherlock whispered to John, his lips brushing the shell of John's ear. At one point he must have wet his lips because John swore he felt a flicker of tongue. He had to squeeze his eyes shut and count slowly to ten.

Then a pair of footsteps – the woman's, according to Sherlock – ascended the stairs. The door handle to the study turned, and the door creaked open. Heels clacked across the floor. A chair was dragged, screeching across floorboards. There were several other sounds – steps, shuffling, movement, grunts – that John couldn't identify, but he was sure Sherlock probably had a pretty good picture of what was happening on the other side of the door.

Sherlock shifted on his feet to get comfortable. In an effort to be as soundless as possible, Sherlock's every movement was painstakingly slow.

His hips ground across John's, millimetre by millimetre, and John's eyes may have rolled back in his head behind his closed eyelids. He was determined not to let his attraction show, though his face was probably a dead giveaway, he hoped Sherlock couldn't see too well in the darkness.

"What's she doing?" John breathed. He hoped focusing on the case would distract him from his current predicament.

"Retrieving the diamonds," Sherlock whispered back. "I should have thought to check the light fixtures, of course. My mistake."

Sherlock removed his arms from over John's head, and in doing so, stumbled. John had to reach out and steady Sherlock. His guard dropped, and his heart sped up, a mixture of nerves and arousal.

And then, because his breathing had quickened and he'd inhaled a fair amount of dust, John felt his nose tickle and twitch. He looked Sherlock in the eye. "I'm going to sneeze."

Right on cue, Sherlock clamped his hand over John's mouth and pinched his nose. The moment passed, as did John's need to sneeze, but Sherlock did not immediately remove his hands, probably out of caution.

"Thanks," John managed when Sherlock finally let go. Sherlock nodded.

Sherlock shifted again. His inner thigh slid across John's leg, bringing their hips closer, if that was even possible. John, still caught off guard, drew in a breath. He cursed under his breath. Sherlock gave him an odd look.

John prayed Sherlock would somehow remain oblivious to his PHYSICAL reaction, but of course, "Sherlock" and "oblivious" were never meant to exist in the same sentence. Sherlock's gaze drifted inexorably downward, and John flushed crimson, thankful again for the cover of darkness.

When Sherlock's eyes returned to meet John's, John gave his most menacing glare, the one criminals cowered under, that dared Sherlock to say anything.

Thankfully, Sherlock didn't.

The woman's footsteps finally exited the room. The door shut. What seemed like hours later, the three pairs of feet left the building, a car started outside, and the thieves drove away, presumably with the diamonds in hand.

Blessedly, Sherlock opened the closet door, and the pair of them burst free, breathing deep gasps of clean, relatively fresh air. John's flush thankfully faded, as did his arousal.

"Do you know where they'll be heading next?" John asked, referring to the thieves. Sherlock nodded.

"I'll send Lestrade there immediately," he said, pulling out his phone to do just that. John nodded, rubbed the back of his neck, breathed deeply.

Before John had a real chance to calm down, however, Sherlock put his phone away and nodded toward the door. "Let's go, then, shall we?" he said. "I think Lestrade can handle the rest of the case on his own. Even the police can't make too much of a mess of this one."

John agreed. Home sounded like a great idea. Sherlock hailed them a cab, and respectfully left plenty of distance between them the whole way back to Baker Street.

The detective did look unusually smug, however, for someone who had just let the criminals get away.

John decided it was probably best not to think too much about that. The incident in the closet was definitely one he would be much better off forgetting, though he doubted that kind of utter humiliation could ever be forgotten entirely.

At least Sherlock was mature enough not to make any crude closet jokes. John had thought up a fair few simply out of self-spite and a desire to distract himself from Sherlock's unbearable closeness.

All in all, John figured he'd gotten off easy. This was Sherlock he was talking about, after all; the man to whom emotion was a foreign language and sexual desires were probably the sort of thing only stupid, uncivilised cavemen had to grapple with on a daily basis.

That is, until they got home. The only words exchanged between them had been about the case, when Sherlock got a text from Lestrade saying they'd caught the thieves. Sherlock relayed this news to John as they entered the flat.

"Good," John said sincerely. "Glad we were able to solve that one without firing any gunshots." He took off his coat and hung it by the door. "Killing people always puts a damper on my day," he added jokingly. Sherlock featured a smirk to match John's, only wider and wickeder.

"Good of you to bring your gun anyway, though, John." He clapped John on the shoulder and walked past, leaving John standing at the entrance to the flat, stunned and mortified.

Of course John hadn't brought his gun; the new development in their current case had come up unexpectedly and he hadn't had a chance to grab it. But that would mean Sherlock was making an innuendo.

And that was just impossible.


	6. Figure

**Erosion**

_A/N: Sorry for the delay! The story is almost over, with only two more chapters to go. Am I done writing Johnlock, though? Absolutely not. Not even close. I have a running queue of eight story ideas, at the current moment, and I want to write as many of them as possible before I head off to school. So expect to see a great deal more from me, your friendly neighbourhood Johnlock writer ;)_

**6: Figure**

John already knew Sherlock was attractive. He was painfully aware of the fact. But usually Sherlock was bundled in so many layers – his trench coat and his scarves – that John's carnal attraction was dulled to a mere appreciation for the detective's appeal. He was able to keep his admiration at a very manageable level and things never got out of hand.

That was not to say that he had not noticed the too-tight shirts Sherlock wore under his coat, revealing his slender figure all too well. Fortunately, the one time John had ever seen more of Sherlock, in Buckingham Palace, he'd been too overcome with the sheer ridiculousness and hilarity of the situation to fully take in the sight. He'd also been in the presence of a disapproving Mycroft, a turn-off if there ever was one.

But the point of all this was, John was more than aware of Sherlock's body, in ways that he often wished he wasn't.

All this had become quite apparent, to both John and, more likely than not, Sherlock, because of the incident in the closet during the jewelry thief chase. At the time, John foolishly thought that would be the worst of it. Later he would curse his own ignorance, thinking somehow life with Sherlock would ever get easier. With Sherlock, "easy" was never part of the equation.

And so it was that on a very ordinary afternoon about a week after the jewel thieves that the gods of fate – or whatever deity had decided making John's life hell was an entertaining pastime – threw John another metaphorical curveball.

It started out like any other caseless day. Even though they were technically in the middle of a case, it wasn't quite so time-sensitive as usual and they didn't have any leads until the nanny came back from her holiday in Paris, which wouldn't be for another two days.

As usual, Sherlock woke before John, if he'd even been asleep in the first place. When John woke, it was to the sounds of Sherlock milling about downstairs. He made breakfast, forced Sherlock to eat, and then sat back and leisurely ate his own meal while Sherlock disappeared for around an hour to shower and shave.

John's eyes lazily skimmed a front-page article he wasn't all that invested in but read anyway because there didn't seem to be much else worth reading. He swallowed the last of his dry toast and washed it down a swig of his morning coffee. After the war, when John was running on very few hours of sleep day after day due to the memories that plagued his dreams, he'd gotten into the habit of intaking excessive amounts of coffee every morning, a practice that he continued because the daily intake of caffeine was a great help in dealing with Sherlock so early in the morning.

Once Sherlock was finished in the bathroom and John had at least made an effort at the daily crossword, he took over the bathroom for his own shower and shave.

Everything else that morning and into the afternoon was relatively uneventful. Sherlock read and reread the details of their current case, all the while texting Lestrade and probably driving the poor man crazy. John updated his blog. Around lunchtime, Sherlock up and dragged John from the flat before he had a chance to make any plans to eat. They followed a lead Sherlock had materialised out of thin air while researching the victim's father, stumbled into yet another dead end, and picked up takeaway on the way home while Sherlock mused over the information he'd garnered from the grouchy old war veteran they'd practically interrogated (John had the feeling the man had only given them the time of day because Sherlock had introduced him as "Captain," which was undoubtedly why Sherlock had introduced him as such).

As evening faded into night and John was just beginning to consider turning in for the night, Sherlock once again gave a display of his absolutely awful timing and whisked John off the sofa to follow another sudden lead.

More specifically, Sherlock burst from his bedroom dressed entirely unlike himself and practically strutted up to where John was seated calmly with his tea and his laptop with all his usual confidence.

John didn't look up at first when he heard his flatmate's footsteps padding over to him, merely uttered a faintly curious, "Hm?" prompting Sherlock to explain himself. Rather than doing so, Sherlock tapped his slender fingers against his thigh and huffed out an impatient breath.

"John," he said to get the man's attention. John sighed, summoned all his wits about him to deal with what would undoubtedly delay his plans to get some sleep, and looked up, taking a swig of his tea. Upon taking in Sherlock's appearance, John promptly choked on the scalding liquid in his throat, coughing and sputtering like an idiot.

John was used to Sherlock's size-too-tight wardrobe, but this was something else entirely. The dark jeans - since when did Sherlock own denim? - he was wearing were so tight against his long legs John wondered if Sherlock had to be vacuum-sealed into them, paired with a dark-red (mauve? maroon? John was sure there was another name for the colour but he couldn't for the life of him say what it was) t-shirt that was fitted against Sherlock's shapely torso.

John blinked rapidly, convinced he was experiencing a temporary visual hallucination, but the image of Sherlock standing there dressed in what amounted to little more than a second skin did nothing to falter or fade.

After accepting the reality of the situation, John's first reaction was to imagine what it would be like to peel those too-tight clothes off his flatmate's sculpted figure and have his way.

His second reaction was to ask, with no effort made to conceal his confusion, and a great deal of effort made to conceal his recently rediscovered appreciation for Sherlock's body, "What the _hell_ are you wearing?"

Sherlock squinted, looking momentarily insulted before his usual haughtiness took over. "We're going to be tailing a suspect, John," he said. "I need to dress inconspicuously."

John's eyebrows climbed closer to his hairline. He gestured all-encompassingly to Sherlock's getup, not missing the way it clung close to his body in several specific places that John would normally take heed to avoid focusing on. "There's nothing inconspicuous about the way you're dressed right now, Sherlock," he said. Sherlock scowled.

"Not in present company," he conceded. He donned an undoubtedly expensive leather jacket and motioned to the stairs. "But you'll want to change as well, John, for where we're going."

With a huff of reluctance, John got to his feet. "And where is that?" he asked. The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up.

"A nightclub, obviously."

Around an hour later, an entirely serious Sherlock and a bemused John arrived at a nightclub John was unashamed to admit he'd never heard of. He was never one for dancing, and in general he preferred to do his drinking from the comfort of his own home or the familiarity of a favourite pub.

As always, Sherlock managed to blend in seamlessly with the crowd, disappearing almost immediately on his hunt for their suspect. Meanwhile, John made his way to the bar, waiting patiently as a gaggle of pretty young girls batted their eyelashes for some free drinks before he could begin the intensive process of ignoring the fact that he was one of the oldest people at a nightclub at a ridiculous hour wearing clothes he hadn't touched since before the war. To top it all off, he couldn't get the image of Sherlock in those bloody jeans out of his head.

Another hour passed. John had stopped drinking, knowing he needed to be relatively sober if Sherlock was planning on chasing and apprehending their suspect, and retreated to a somewhat secluded corner not too far from the bar. A few times he saw Sherlock wander past, always talking in a falsely charming manner to a different girl, undoubtedly collecting intel.

At one point, Sherlock emerged from the crowd and grabbed John by the arm into the fray. He looked hurried, and John didn't ask questions, knowing it must have to do with the case and Sherlock would explain when it became necessary for John to know and no sooner.

It turned out Sherlock explained surprisingly quickly. As soon as they reached a more well-lit but not too crowded area, he grabbed John's shoulders and turned him so they stood face-to-face. "I'm going to need you pretend to be my boyfriend while we're here, John."

Sherlock gave a wide-eyed and disbelieving John about four seconds to process this information before launching forward to slam his mouth against John's.

For a long few moments, John was stiff and unresponsive, eyes wide and mind reeling. When he finally caught up with what was going on he reacted instantly and in an uncharacteristically opportunistic manner.

Sherlock's fingers were threaded through John's hair, his other hand clenching the fabric of John's shirt, and his mouth probed John's with steadfast insistence. John delved into Sherlock's mouth with equal fervor, tilting his head to gain better access. He thought he felt Sherlock smile against his mouth, but was a little distracted by the way Sherlock's body was pressed up against his, the way Sherlock's hips subtly rolled against his in a way that made John's eyes roll back in his head.

When they finally broke apart, Sherlock was grinning and looking over John's shoulders while John was gasping in air and trying to calm his raging hard-on.

"Perfect," Sherlock said. "Thank you, John."

"Wait," John said when he managed to collect his thoughts enough to speak. "What does that have to do with the case?"

Sherlock didn't answer and acted as though he hadn't heard John, instead moving past John and motioning for him to follow. "I've found our suspect," he said. "Follow me and try to act as though we're going to shag when we get home." He shot a grin over his shoulder and John blanched and followed directions.

If only.


	7. Conclusion

**Erosion**

_A/N: Last chapter, the thrilling conclusion (it's not actually that thrilling). Look for more Johnlock from me in the very near future!_

**7: Conclusion**

In its final stages, Sherlock's experiment was already proving effective. John's self-control was clearly going downhill fast, judging by the way he leapt at the opportunity to snog Sherlock silly. Sherlock fought a smirk as he led John through the crowd of drinkers and dancers, weaving between bodies. He finally had eyes on their target, and was determined not to lose him.

Sherlock was glad John hadn't asked him to explain the finer details of the latest developments in their current case. He never liked lying to John, and in this instance he would have been forced to.

When they had questioned the elderly war veteran earlier that day, Sherlock had connected the dots instantly to the criminal, the man they were currently pursuing. They could have gone after the man right away, but Sherlock had seen his opportunity to further his experiment and seized it. Sherlock knew he could use this as a chance to once again make it painfully obvious to everyone but John that he was bloody trying to seduce the man.

Sherlock grinned and chanced a glance back at John. Once again, despite Sherlock's advances – including bloody _kissing him on the mouth_ – he seemed completely oblivious to Sherlock's interest. If Sherlock didn't know better, he would think John was deliberately ignoring the obvious dynamic between them. More likely, though, that John simply couldn't see what was right in front of his face all along. Typical.

With a shake of his head and a scoff, Sherlock continued leading John, occasionally stopping to do couple-y things whenever the appropriate situation arose. Nothing quite so overt as he'd done at first, snogging John in the middle of a crowded room; instead mostly just letting his hands linger where they wanted to and leaning farther forward than he normally would to whisper (or as close to a whisper as he could get over the deafening music) in John's ear. Gradually John appeared to grow more comfortable with this arrangement, and Sherlock would be lying if he claimed he wasn't immensely pleased with himself.

The whole time he kept a watchful eye on their suspect, only faltering when his thoughts were drawn back to the incomparable experience of kissing John. There wasn't much that could distract the world's only consulting detective, but John was certainly the top of that list. And bloody hell was it distracting to recall the way it felt when John's tongue slid across his…

Sherlock shook his head, curls brushing his forehead. Thinking about John this way made him feel strange, like needles pricking underneath his skin. Undoubtedly there was a biological or psychological explanation for the oddly addictive sensation, but at the present moment Sherlock was experiencing a rare difficulty thinking scientifically.

The distraction was so severe that Sherlock was barely aware of their suspect leaving discreetly through an alternative exit, but the moment he overcame the temporary lapse in his thought process, he went on high alert. John, attuned as he was to Sherlock's many moods and behaviours, noticed right away.

"What?" he asked, letting go of Sherlock's hand, which he'd grabbed under the pretence of not getting lost in the crowd.

"He's leaving," Sherlock said, his tone suddenly serious. John caught on immediately, and the pair of them wove through the crowd and out the door behind their suspect.

They stepped out into the chilly night air and found themselves, predictably, in a dark, narrow, disgusting alley. It took less than a moment for Sherlock to register their current predicament. Apparently he had not been as covert in following their man as he would have liked to be, judging by the fact that the suspect was long gone and had left behind three of his thuggish friends to deal with Sherlock and John.

John had his gun out of his jacket pocket in an instant; Sherlock hadn't even realised he'd brought it. John shot one of the thugs in the kneecap and Sherlock took advantage of the momentary distraction to sidestep the two remaining assailants, snatch the lid off a garbage bin, and bring it heavily down on the nearest man's head. He moved to escape when the third thug shoved him up against the unforgiving brick wall and delivered a brutal right hook to Sherlock's face. John was fighting off the man he'd shot, clearly gaining the upper hand when he ended the altercation by dislocating the man's jaw and shoving him to the ground.

Noticing his companions' incapacitated states, Sherlock's attacker unforgivingly leveled a handgun at the detective's head.

John did not hesitate. Sherlock heard the safety click and was instantly thrown off his feet as John shoved him out of the way and proceeded to fire point-blank at the attacker's head. He grimaced at the gruesome proceedings as the heavy man slumped to the ground bleeding and the life faded from his eyes, but the determined set of John's mouth revealed neither guilt nor regret.

Sherlock blanched, taken aback by this potent reminder of John's unwavering loyalty. He knew the two of them should get out of the alleyway before the two injured but still surviving thugs got back to their feet. He knew he should call Lestrade and reveal the case's latest developments.

His first reaction, though, was to once again seize John by his shoulders and snog the living daylights out of him, even more desperately and greedily than the last time, ignoring John's gun that was still in his hand, though John at least had the presence of mind to click the safety back on and pocket the weapon. His hands were then buried in Sherlock's hair, his tongue sliding just like it had before and his body feeling the same as it had when they'd been trapped in that closet what felt like ages ago.

Sherlock broke away to explore John's neck with his tongue and teeth, entirely caught up in the moment. John cleared his throat pointedly, bringing Sherlock's attention back to the rather urgent matter at hand. Reluctantly, Sherlock withdrew and stepped carefully over the one dead and two unconscious bodies. "Should we do something about…?" John gestured to the men on the ground. Sherlock dismissed the issue with a wave of his hand.

"I'll leave an anonymous tip at Scotland Yard, but I have the feeling whoever these men were working for will have cleaned up the mess by then," Sherlock said. "Clearly they aren't the sort to leave any loose ends."

They'd been walking down the street for several moments, both ignoring the events that had just transpired between them, when John spoke up once again.

"Should I continue to act as though we're going to shag when we get home?" This question was accompanied by a cheeky, if somewhat eager, grin. Sherlock kept his face carefully devoid of expression as he glanced askance at his flatmate.

"There needn't be any acting involved," he said, and finally broke into a lecherous grin, inwardly marking his now-complete experiment as a total success.


End file.
